“What the hell, Chris?” I call out. He has no answer for me.
Returning to the bedroom, Chris carries a length of creamy white calico fabric that he must have fished out of the dressmaking kit. He gently passes it over my eyes and around the back of my head, tying it off at the side to avoid it digging into me. This is clearly a test of my trust. My ears quickly tune in deeper, focusing on every sound, every clue that might tell me what sensation to expect next. But I should have known he would anticipate that, and he goes about his movements stealthily, deliberately keeping me unaware.
Finally I feel his standing weight impress upon the mattress as his footprints fall on either side of my hips. I sense him crouch in closer to me, feel him steady his body against the headboard on one side
